


Diaries of the Autistic Ultimates.

by ETNMystic



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, autism headcanons, autistic celestia ludenberg, autistic chihiro fujisaki, autistic kaede akamatsu, autistic kyoko kirigiri, there will likely be more diary entries from each of the characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ETNMystic/pseuds/ETNMystic
Summary: A collection of stories involving DR characters, both canon and fanon, that I/others headcanon as autistic/neurodivergent in some other way.





	1. Is Self-Advocacy Truly Insubordination? (Celestia Ludenberg)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celestia Ludenberg hates fire alarms and teachers touching her. 
> 
> (CW: ABA Therapy mention, ableism)

I am Celestia Ludenberg. When I was two and a half years old, I was diagnosed with autism. They thought I would never learn to talk, would never be able to be independent, essentially a vegetable. I'm now 14 years old and those haven't seem to come to pass. 

It's a normal Friday morning at my high school. I'm in my Special Education class, though I loathe the phrase. The teachers infantilize us, treat us as if we're never going to grow up. I don't know what the lesson is. I spaced out long ago. I would have more focus if they gave me back my ring, my special Gunmetal plated ring. They claim it’s a “danger to the others,” even though all I do is fidget with it on my index finger.

**BEEP BEEP BEEP!**

Shit! What is that? Is there a harpy shrieking in my ears? No! It's the damn fire alarm. Sighing I stand up and put on my headphones to block out the noise, but just before I can walk out the door, they're ripped from my head and I'm whirled around to be put face-to-face with Satan herself.

"We've discussed this, Taeko," the Special Ed teacher condescends to me, inches from my face; I can smell cigarette fumes.  
"You can't use these. Understand?"

I simply stare at her. I don't respond to that name. It feels completely unfitting. And her hands on my shoulders feel like fire from the deepest pits of hell. I push away, but she grabs me again, harder, and tries to lead me out the door. I pull away again, turning from her unpleasant face. It's times like this I wish my face blindness came in handy.

"Taeko!" she snaps at me. 

I know that she's mad. I can hear it in her voice, but I don't care. I'm infuriated, and rightly so. She touched me without asking. Twice. And it seems that third times the charm. 

"Do not touch me," I assert firmly as I pull away.  
"And I would like my headphones back please."

"We discussed this. I am the teacher and you are the student. You have to listen to me. You have to deal with the noise. Now follow me."

But I don't. I simply stand there as the alarm begins to pound against my eardrums once more. Each sound crescendos as my stomach finds itself tied in knots. A lump forms in my throat. 

"Taeko!" 

My eyes snap shut. Fists form in place of my hands and I begin to rock on my feet. 

"TAEKO!"

I feel her grab my wrist firmly, her inferno-cladded nails digging deep into my skin. I swear I can feel the skin break. And I've had just about enough. I open my eyes.

"You asked for this," I inform her before I bite down hard on her hand.

Shrieking in pain, she lets go and I take off in the opposite direction. I throw my hands up to my ears as I dash down the stairs and out the door. Darting across the street, past the bus lot, across the highway, slowing down once I think she can't catch up to me. I look down at the hand she used to grab me. Sure enough, she'd broken the skin. Luckily, there's a safe place close by.

Tokyo's Versailles-Themed Casino.

* * *

 

I walk inside; no one really questions me as I know what I'm doing. I spy a group of old friends from a National Gambling Competition, one I have yet to receive my results from; The British Gambling Masters.

"Good morning, gentlemen," I greet them with subtle, yet precise articulation.  
"Quite a surprise to see you in Tokyo."

"Celeste, darling," one gentleman, Forrester replies standing up.  
"You seem to be rather upset. Whatever is the matter?"

"I nearly had a meltdown again. The Special Education teacher touched me without my consent. And, see here."

I hold up my hand; small pearls of blood still drip down it.

"She dug her nails into the back of my hand."

A murmur of concern ripples throughout the group.

"Well," I announce.  
"Shall we play for who shall retrieve my book bag and other things?"

"No need, Mademoiselle," Forrester assures me.  
"I and several others shall retrieve them for you at no cost. I take it you have no intention of returning to the school today."

"Only perhaps for my Honors European History course," I inform him as I sit in an empty seat  
"I would rather die than miss that. Oh, and perhaps my French 4 class as well. After which I shall, of course, return here."

Forrester then directs his group. One of them goes to help me clean up my wounds while several others rush out to retrieve my things. I know it's nearly their lunch break and the Special Education teacher goes to the teacher's lounge to eat, so retrieving my things shouldn't be a problem. 

Another gentleman talks to the manager of the casino and they decide to play  _Pachelbel Canon in D,_ which is a song I find helps me when I experience sensory overload. The manager also comes out and presents me with a pair of weighted dice to test as a stimulatory tool. I find rolling them around in my hand feels quite relaxing. 

"Well, gentlemen," I announce as they bring me out a cup of warm milk tea.  
"Would any of you like to hear about a few new things I learned about the history of France?"

They agree. I tell them about the misconception of Marie Antoinette's "famous phrase."

"I find it fabulously peculiar," I tell them.  
"That anyone would ever believe she said 'Let them eat cake' in the first place. Of course, I wouldn't say it either."

I tell them about the royal court's former finance minister.

"It was on July 11th 1789 that Jacque Necker was fired for merely suggesting the royal family go on a budget to help conserve funds. Part of this termination could also have to do with him not being in good standing with King Louis the Sixteenth even before his suggestion. I like to think that my husband made the right decision for luxury, but perhaps not for conservation."

I also try to teach them some French that I taught myself.

"Un jour, je serai une célèbre joueuse."

"Je crois que vous seres," one of them replies.

"Moi aussi," Forrester exclaims as he re-enters with my book bag and other things, including my headphones.

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Forrester. You’re an officer and a gentleman.”

“They refused to give back your Gunmetal plated ring, unfortunately.”

“Of course, they did,” I sigh annoyed.  
“No matter."

As if almost by instinct, I reach for my backpack and take out my black case where I hold my stim toys. I head for the secret compartment where I pull out my backup and slip it on my index finger.

“Marie Antoinette would always have a backup plan.”

I spend most of my time there. When it comes time for fifth and sixth period, Forrester drives me back to school. Honors European History and French 4 are the only classes I’m interested in this year, so my notes are rather condensed. 

Afterwards, I play several rounds at the casino before heading home for dinner.

* * *

Come Monday morning, I head back to the Special Education class. The teacher gives me a rather loud, sensory-hell earful in front of everyone about "how disrespectful" I am and that I “should know better than to disobey a teacher.” 

“If you are quite done trying to make everyone’s eardrums bleed, I’d like to remind you,” I declare in a firm, but mature, voice.  
“That you are not the final authority over me. Even if you were, authority is not always correct.”

I get a detention slip for “insubordination” and “talking back.” Come lunchtime, I file a report against the teacher for touching me without consent. I remind them it’s against school policy for teachers to touch students. Even if a regular touch on the arm would be denied investigation, I provide pictures I took on the way to the casino on my phone, showing them the blood drawn. 

The teacher is forced to give me my Gunmetal ring back, but she's not finished. She calls my parents in for a meeting. I’m not invited inside, but I can hear them from outside her office. She goes on to spout lies about how I’m an “insolent little monster,” that I “refuse to obey authority,” and that I should “be taken to ABA Therapy.” 

I take a piece of notebook paper out and sketch out a sign in pen. I then snatch the tape from the desk outside. I stick it on her door. It reads;

_“This Special Education teacher has blatant disrespect for autistic people. How ironic. Don’t ALL students deserve better?”_

Later I get called in for “vandalism.” Once again, she tries to grab me, but I fight back. 

I get a detention for "disobeying authority." I suppose if you wish to call self-advocacy "disobedience," then consider me defiant. This isn’t the first time this has happened. And I know it certainly won’t be the last. But I do know that when it does, I'll likely be ready.


	2. Piano Keys (Kaede Akamatsu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaede wants to perform Clair de Lune in her music class. Her music teacher doesn't think she's qualified enough. 
> 
> (CW: Vomiting implication/mention)

My name is Kaede Akamatsu. I am the protagonist of this entry. I was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder at the age of 8. Most people would probably be upset to be professionally diagnosed with a disability, but I wasn't all that upset. As a matter of fact, I was actually relieved! It explained so much of what I was going through, why I had trouble relating to most kids my age, why I didn't understand social cues, why I often used music to relate to the world, why that was the only way the world made sense to me. 

It's a Friday afternoon in my freshman year of high school, and I'm excited because we're supposed to be performing our piano pieces in music class. I chose my favorite piece;  _Clair de Lune_ by Claude Debussy. Most of the kids in my music class choose pieces like  _Mary Had a Little Lamb_ or  _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star._ No shade to them, though. Everyone progresses at different speeds.

Then it's my turn. I eagerly clench my piece and nearly run to the piano. 

"Kaede?" my music teacher asks.  
"What piece did you pick to play?"

" _Clair de Lune_ by Claude Debussy," I announce proudly.

Her face twists into an expression of......confusion? Anger? Fear? She reaches out for my music and looks it over. She's shocked. I hold my hands out, but she doesn't give them back to me.

"Um, dearie," she begins in that sickly-sweet tone.  
"Are you sure this is the piece?"

I nod, still waiting for her to hand the sheets back to me, but instead she holds them out in front of me; making sure I'm watching, she slowly tears the sheet music in half. Then she does it again, and again, until it's a bunch of pieces of paper on the floor.

"I don't think you're at that level, sweetie," she tells me slowly.

I stare at her, confused. Why is she questioning my ability? Then out of nowhere, she touches me. SHE TOUCHES ME, on the shoulders. I flinch, it feels . Then she leads me over to the piano, pushing me down on the bench and placing  _Hot Cross Buns_ on the music stand.

_HOT. CROSS. BUNS._

"This.....isn't my piece," I tell her, still confused. 

"You've picked something too difficult," she patronizes.  
"Now go on."

I turn around, giving the sheet music a look that could kill. Not to worry, though. I've played  _Clair De Lune_ enough times that it's practically embedded in my mind. I place my hands at the ready and begin the opening to  _Clair De Lune,_ but before I can go on, the teacher comes over and grabs my wrists.

"You're not playing it correctly," she growls with a mix of condescension and anger.  
"I'll show you how it's done."

She tries to force me to play, but I fight against her.

"No!" I exclaim fearfully.  
"Let go of me!"

At this point, she loses her temper.

"Kaede!" she snaps.  
"Stop being disrespectful."

I struggle against her grip and begin to hum quietly to calm myself down.

"Shut up!" she shrieks.

She's practically digging her fingernails into my wrists now. I hum even louder as she drags me out of the music room. I wriggled, trying to get away from her as she practically slams me into the wall outside of the music room.

"Listen here, you little shit! LOOK ME IN THE EYE WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

I keep my eyes shut and kick at her, feeling terrified. I feel like I'm going to be sick, and eventually I feel something come back up.

* * *

I wake up to find myself in the nurse's office. I'm told that a fellow student had found me passed out on the floor outside of the music room in a pile of sick, bleeding at the wrists. I'm also told that my parents are on their way to pick me up. I look down at my wrists, and sure enough, the music teacher has broken through.  They're wrapped heavily in gauze, but I can still see some red spots. It looks like a draft of a demonic music piece. 

My parents come pick me up, and I lose my composure. I spend the whole car ride crying in my mother's arms. The second we get home, I run to the music room and lock the door, keeping most of the lights off. Inside is our piano. Sighing in utter relief, I rush towards it and pull up the cover. The keys are smooth, immaculate, as usual. I pull the bench out and sit down. I take a moment to let my fingers run over the keys. They're a little cool, but I don't mind. I love the feeling of the keys on the tips of my fingers. 

After a time, I position my hands. I close my eyes and begin  _Clair De Lune._ Even if the teacher won't let me play it there at school, no one can stop me from playing it in here. This is my sanctuary. I've even set the boundaries of it with my family. Unless it's an emergency, such as if the house is on fire, no one is allowed to disturb me when I'm in here, especially not while I'm playing piano, and especially NOT while I'm playing  _Clair De Lune._ It's my sanctuary piece, a sacred song to me. 

I try to play as slowly as possible, to savor the tranquility of the piece. Sometimes I get excited and speed up at certain parts of a piece, but that's to be expected. I get very invested in piano, sometimes so invested that I've forgotten to eat or sleep or even go to the bathroom. 

Once I'm finished playing it a few times, my anxiety has decreased drastically. Taking a deep breath, I head over and open the door to find my younger twin sister kneeling by the door.

"Are you okay, Kaede?" Aiko asks me concerned.

I nod and smile at her.

"I am now."


	3. Python has No Gender (Chihiro Fujisaki)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chihiro likes programming because there's no gender roles to it. Anyone can program.  
> (CW: Gender/gender roles)

N-Nice to meet you. I'm Chihiro Fujisaki. If you asked me if I was a boy or a girl, I would just say "yes." Truth be told, I was born a male, but I decided to passed myself off as female because I look more feminine and I stopped getting teased for it. 

Anyway, I'm autistic. I was diagnosed when I was six. That was around the same time I discovered programming systems like Python and C++. 

I know I said that the teasing stopped after I started living as a girl, but I get tired somedays and can't keep it up. Passing, either as a gender or as neurotypical, is tiring. Imagine having to do both. 

That's part of why I love programming. There's no gender. Python's neither a boy or girl. C++ isn't masculine or feminine. But because programming is generally considered a "male thing," I get teased for being a girl who likes programming. They seem to be fine with me being female, though.

"Why's your hair so short, Chihiro?" one classmate told me.  
"Girls are supposed to have long hair."

"No, don't wear a blue shirt. Blue's a boy's color," a friend told me.  
"You should wear pink instead. It's more appropriate for girls."

"I love how soft-spoken and shy you are," another classmate commented.  
"Like a true girl."

Yes, I'm rather soft-spoken, but boys don't have to be loud and rowdy to be boys. It's not just classmates and kids who say these things, though. Adults have often tried to steer me towards "girly hobbies" like sewing, baking, painting, dressmaking. Even my dad's friends would always buy me Barbies whenever I'd have birthday parties, which very few kids came to because they'd be themed around programming. I'd always throw the Barbies away, except for one. It's a Barbie that has a camera installed in her. That's the only reason I've kept her. I mean, she's also pretty, but mostly the camera was why I kept her. 

I don't understand gender roles or rules. I mean, I understand rules such as "wash your hands after you go to the toilet," "don't pull an animal's tail," "say please and thank you." But those make sense. The first rule is so that you don't get sick as often. If only computers could wash their hands. Then maybe they wouldn't get viruses. (Computer/programming joke). The second rule is because it's disrespectful and cruel to pull an animal's tail. And the last one is because it shows people that you're a polite person. But gender rules? They make absolutely no sense to me. I don't understand "Girls must be soft-spoken. Boys must be loud," "Girls wear dresses. Boys wear shorts," "Girls are bad at math. Boys are good at math," "Girls don't program. Boys do."

I feel like these gender roles are so instilled in society. Once my principal tried to steer me away from registering for the AP Computer Programming class at my school because there'd be a lot of boys in that class. I don't think a girl CAN'T be a programmer or good with technology and sciences. In fact I know a few girls who are really good at that stuff. A girl I met at a social skills class is also autistic and is really good at video games. I mean, insanely good at them. But it gets tiring hearing what a girl or boy can and can't do. 

I think anyone should be able to do whatever they like as long as they're not hurting themselves or others. Maybe one day, gender roles won't be so heavily enforced. But until then, I'll be a rebellious "girl" and be the best darn programmer I can be!

 


	11. I'm Not Something To Be Solved (Kyoko Kirigiri)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyoko attends ABA Therapy as a teenager, but she sees no benefit in the program.
> 
> (CW: ABA Therapy, general ableism)
> 
> I haven't been in ABA Therapy (thank God!), so I'm going off of the accounts from @theinfiniteofthought on Tumblr who went through ABA Therapy, as well as how I feel like Kyoko would react to ABA Therapy
> 
> While ABA Therapy could potentially be helpful, at its core, Ivar Lovaas, the man who created ABA Therapy, didn't see people like me as human psychologically. He's dead now.

Hello. My name is Kyoko Kirigiri. Yes, I'm autistic, otherwise I wouldn't be writing in this. And yes, I went to ABA Therapy. Strike that. I was MADE TO GO to ABA Therapy. 

I'm sitting in the waiting room, bouncing my leg, my mom sitting next to me filling out a health questionnaire. I'm probably fourteen, so I could do it myself, but it's whatever.

Let's backtrack. Why am I there? Well, if you ask my mom, she'd say that I'm "being defiant" and "exhibiting strange behaviors." If you ask me, I have no clue. Let me give you the gist of this "strange behavior;" I started stimming more (bouncing my leg, flapping my hands, rocking, the usual), I've gotten really into murder mysteries, trying to figure out how it was done and who did it and sometimes talk about it nonstop. I refuse to go into the kitchen if both the hanging lights AND the ceiling lights are on because it hurts my eyes. I wear headphones at parties because it's really loud. I refuse to go in the kitchen if there's a strong smell. Things like that.

Anyway my mom and I are called in and the therapist immediately starts talking to my mom and ignore me. Even though the questions she's asking are thing I can answer.

"Excuse me," I cough.  
"I can answer these questions myself."

She ignores me and continues talking with my mom. Sighing I try to get up to go the waiting room, but the therapist grabs me violently on the shoulder and pushes me back down into my chair. My head hits the wall and I feel it throbbing. Luckily, I studied the code of ethics of ABA Therapy, as well as the rights of the client.

"I'd be careful not to do that," I tell her as I rub the back of my head.  
"Your code of ethics dictates that you must---"

She places her hand over my mouth and I gasp. As I try to pry it away, she keeps asking my mom questions. Finally they tell me that unless I'm good, they're gonna take away my detective novels. 

* * *

1st session begins the next day. 

Immediately, I'm forced into a room and sat down in a chair. They turn all of the lights on and I instinctively shut my eyes. All of a sudden, I feel an electric shock. 

"Open eyes!" the therapist barks. 

 _Over my dead body,_ I think. 

"Will you please turn the lights down first?" I tell her calmly.

I get another shock.

"No talking back!"

"I wasn't talking back," I reply confused as I get continuous shocks.  
"How is ***shock*** asking you ***shock*** to turn ***shock*** the lights ***shock*** down considered ***shock*** talking back?"  ***shock.***

They give me continuous shocks until I start to smell cooked flesh. Squinting my eyes, I glance at the spot where they've shocked me. My skin has burn injuries. It's bright red, beginning to turn white. I'm terrified, but I try to keep calm.

"I'm pretty sure this is against your code of ethics," I tell her firmly, as I start to flap my hands and bounce my feet. 

I feel her slam her arms on my feet and hands.

"Quiet hands!" she demands.  
"Quiet feet!"

Rolling my eyes, I bounce even more intensely. 

"Quiet feet!" she nearly screams.  
"Quiet--!"

"What makes you think this is okay?" I ask her curiously.  
"Would this be okay to do to a non-autistic person?"

"No, because **we** don't need to be trained like **your people** do. **WE** are normal!" she hisses.  
" **We** don't need to be solved and fixed.  **Your people** need to."

That's it! I've had it. Using all my strength, I kick her away and rush to the door.

"I'm not something to be solved, bitch," I spit fury.

Flinging it open, I rush out to the waiting room and then to the door.

"Kyoko?" my mom asks.  
"Where are you going?"

"Home," I reply bluntly, angered. 

"Why? This therapy is going to help you."

I whirl around.

"Is THIS what you mean by helping?" I snap, showing her the burn mark. Her eyes grow wide.  
"They tasered me continuously. How is THAT helping?"

The therapist comes out, red as a tomato. My mom goes to the front desk and demands that we discontinue the therapy. And on a dime, the therapist changes from fury and fire to sweet and sickly. She tries to suck up to my mom, trying to get her to stay, but my mom's already filling out the discontinuation form. I head out the door and report the incident to the nearest police station.

Well, as it turns out, I'm not the first to be treated like this at that kind of therapy. There are other autistics who've gone through that and have even developed PTSD from it. So if there's any way we can make this illegal, and teach coping methods instead, that'd be fantastic.

 


End file.
